


given that our blood is just like the atlantic

by orphan_account



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-01-21 21:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12465940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Your heart felt goodIt was drippin' pitch and made of woodAnd your hands and kneesFelt cold and wet on the grass beneath





	1. Chapter 1

Normally, on a rainy day like this, Ambrose would be down in the mines, but the restless need to distract his mind from itself is gone for once and he's been given an opportunity to relax. He's pushed his large, comfortable, old armchair in front of his window and has his legs tucked up under him, wrapped in a blanket to keep the humid cold out as he sips on a mug of too-sweet tea, watching the spring storm wash down over the many islands and swell the waterways surrounding them. 

A flash of worry flickers through him as his eyes trail over the outline of the chicken coop one island over, but he takes a small breath and calms down, taking another sip. Robin built the coop strong, laid the foundations deep in the muddy earth. It won't wash away. 

He looks down and sighs as his cat twines around his legs, murmuring to it in Gaelic- ("Are you hungry, friend?") before smiling as the small creature hops up into his lap and makes itself comfortable despite the small amount of space available. He absentmindedly pets her and scratches between her ears as he watches the rain come down harder and harder, mind drifting again. 

His stomach twists as he remembers the events of the past season, and he tries to avoid letting his mind rest on it, but it draws back again. Shane's probably coming home from work around now. Why does he care about that? Why does he want to get to know that fucker so bad? 

Ambrose had been having a pretty good record as far as meeting people and not fucking it up too bad (of course, there's the eternal possibility of them all just being polite to him), but he had tried to talk to the guy in the ragged hoodie crouching by the edge of the bar and had been immediately cut off. He'd kept trying to talk to him every single night after that- it's worrying, really, how he's there every single night, but it's not like it isn't questionable to pursue the friendship of the same surly drunk every single night, too. 

Ambrose had persisted, blunt and prying and irritatingly generous, greeting him in the morning as he fished in the river and sitting not-quite-next to him in the evening, ordering him extra beers and asking questions. For once, his annoyingly laser-guided focus had worked. 

Maybe it has something to do with that beer they shared at the end of the dock out in the woods a few weeks ago, and they'd both got drunk (Shane on purpose, Ambrose because he's a goddamned lightweight). Shane had said things about how nothing felt worth shit and he just wants to give up, sometimes, and Ambrose had felt too fuzzy around the edges with beer and had related too much to keep words from spilling out of his mouth, talking about how he sometimes feels so horribly wrong and bad, like he's made some terrible mistake that he can never fix, and he's terrible, sinful- 

Shane got him to stop, fuck, walked him home, even (he probably would have tripped off one of those plank bridges on his land and drowned to death in four-foot-deep water if he hadn't, but still it was something.) He wasn't expecting the gift of a drink, much less that, considering the results of approaching him before. 

And then there was the Spring Dance only a few days ago. He'd- no. Nope. He's not going to think about that, actually. Vetoing that thought process. 

Shane seems to be occupying more of his thoughts, lately, like some sort of looming stormcloud. He's unpleasant, honestly, and they're probably enabling each other, but there's something close and familiar about him when he lets his walls down just a bit, and Ambrose can't possibly stop thinking about him. But then, there's something about the way they insult each other and poke fun that's _fun,_ for some shitty reason. A game of abrasive little attacks. 

It's getting later- the easy rest he'd settled into is fast fading, and now he just feels faintly nauseated by the idea that he's wasted work. Despite that, he can't seem to make himself get up and do more work cleaning up the farm- he should just go to sleep. It's supposed to be dry tomorrow, and he's got things to do. He can think useless thoughts about Shane later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of a Shane/Player fic I posted a while ago, and I legitimately put some effort into it this time. The title and beginning lyrics are from 3rd Planet by Modest Mouse.
> 
> The first two chapters are just a summary of the spring from both of their perspectives, and I'll try to get something a little more dynamic going in the coming chapters, I think. Leave a kudos if you like it so far!


	2. Chapter 2

Ambrose Irving, the new farmer, reminds Shane of a bird, sometimes. Blue has always been the color he's associated with birds, and that fading blue-purple as his hair dye starts to slowly wash out is just the color he thinks of. He acts like a bird, too, so incredibly anxious and flighty and performatively loud and scratching at the things he wants, and he almost looks like a bird, shorter then him, nose sharp, bony where Shane's softer. 

If he had to name a certain bird he'd say a magpie- he collects shining things, wearing glittering little baubles like the gold studs in his ears and the bright metal of his glasses and the old, battered rings he finds and cleans and wears under his gardening gloves. Interesting rocks and nice flowers and origami animals pile up on the weathered stone shrine a few islands over from the farmhouse; Shane's rarely been to the shrine, but he does so every once and a while, to pay his respects (he's not a superstitious person, but he remembers old Farmer Irving from his days visiting Pelican Town as a young child, and he was always kind). Every time, there's more trinkets and mica and interesting-shaped quartz formations, fresh wildflowers to replace the rotting ones.

He thinks that as he watches crows hop around outside his bedroom window, sitting on his bed, head swimming, half-drunk. It's Sunday, and Gus had kicked him out earlier then usual- he honestly can't decide if he's pissed off or thankful for it. It's raining, and he thinks he'd seen Ambrose fishing in the river again, when he'd left, but he can't quite remember.

It's been nearly all of spring since Ambrose moved into his grandfather's old farm, and they've formed what he'd call a tentative semblance of a relationship. It was slow starting, of course- the farmer was too pushing and interested and nosy too fast, then hesitant and self-doubting when the response left things to be desired, while Shane was too rude, too abrasive, then guilty, which only made him ruder. They got a little more understanding, after a while- Ambrose related to the urge to be alone, admitted that his awkwardness had made him blunt, and Shane felt something in Ambrose he might relate to as well. 

He definitely wouldn't call them friends, he thinks. They share a beer in the evenings some days, and sometimes happen to occupy the same space when they both get fed up with having to talk to people. There's still an air of hostility, but more petty and playful then before. Joking. Not-quite-joking. Then there was that raw moment at the end of the dock, when Shane opened up a little and out came spilling nihilist angsting like he's a high schooler all over again. Ambrose, kind of a lightweight and already near-wasted when Shane was only buzzed, had answered that with a half-awake, near-feverish rant as he was slowly lead home about how some days things just don't _feel right_ and he can't ever do anything to fix it, not ever, and he knows deep inside himself that it makes him wrong and bad and a sinner-

He thinks about it sometimes, and feels an emotion he refuses to call worry, but not too often. 

Then there was the yearly Spring Dance, only about half a week earlier. Shane had watched with a growing sick feeling as Ambrose fumbled through a dance proposal to that prettyboy writer that lives down on the beach, and then, when awkwardly rejected, in a fit of desperation and self-destructive impulse, did the same to for the rest of the single people at the part, messing up worse each time and getting turned down by everyone with various degrees of kindness. 

He hadn't asked Shane to dance, thankfully (the very thought of dancing makes him want to throw himself into the river), but Ambrose had taken him up on the offer of ditching the event. They'd found a clearing out in the woods and sat on big boulders, drinking their too-sweet fruit punch as Ambrose confirmed he definitely didn't want to talk about it, and the slightly uncomfortable silence slowly faded to something peaceful and comfortable. It'd been.. nice. 

Days pass by quickly working at Jojamart even though it seems like an eternity when he's actually there. The whole place is sickly-pale and constantly humming barely-audible commercial pop music, Morris endlessly smiling his smug smile behind his desk and the lady behind the cash register, silent, always about to pass out at her station. Shane might worry about her too, sometimes- he's worked here for two years, shorter then she has, and he still doesn't know her name. Sam, one of the local teens, works there some days in some seasons and complains constantly when he's not sneaking his two friends in and messing around in the back room. Ambrose never comes in to buy things. He's only been in the building once, and there was a feeling about him that he hadn't seen often, something like an animal dangerously close to going feral. When Morris had widened his smile and asked if he could help, he'd snapped out a no and darted out the door, automatic doors whirring shut behind him. 

Marnie's convinced the two are close. She keeps calling him _your friend Ambrose_ no matter how much Shane protests, and always sends him to deliver the chickens he buys. It's embarrassing, kind of, that she's so desperate for him to have friends that he spends time with regularly, but it wouldn't hurt to humor her sometimes. So, he delivers the chickens when she asks, argues with Ambrose over the names he picks for them and the fact that he build the coops on one of the tiny islands dotting the water between Marnie's farm and his. He's especially frustrated over the fact that he insists the island be called Chicken Island, and refuses to discuss anything if he doesn't use that exact terminology.

Summer's fast spproaching, and Shane finds himself dreading it. The rest of the townspeople always seem to enjoy the warmer weather, but he always finds himself hiding away in his room whenever he can, hiding from the heat and the bright light, drinking more simply because the beer's cold. At the very least, there's the Luau, and he always feels a little pride about the quality of the food his family contributes to the stew. 

He's really not sure why this is coming to mind, but Ambrose has been getting.. quieter as the weather gets warmer. He still greets everyone he sees in a friendly enough manner, when he can, but he's getting twitchier, stopping by the Stardrop significantly less, spending all the time he can down in the mines up near the mountain. Shane's caught him rifling through the garbage cans of all his neighbors more then once lately, but the only reason for that he can think of is that he's been doing this this whole time, and he's just been getting less stealthy about it. He'd asked him why the hell he was dumpster diving after a few times, what the hell, does he need any _help-_ He'd just shifted about half-nervous and blurted something about free stuff before dashing off to wherever he was going next. 

Glancing down at his radio, he realizes with a lurch that it's past two in the morning. Fuck. He really hadn't wanted to stay up this late, especially considering he's got work in the morning, but it's not like he needs to be sharp and fully awake to move boxes in a stupid uniform. Morris never cares if he's hungover, it's almost expected at this point. Unable to muster the effort to take off his clothes, he kicks off his muddy boots, grimacing as one smacks into the side of his TV, and drags the blankets over his shoulders to try to keep some of the night cold out. At least it'll be less fucking chilly, when summer comes. That's something.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been getting hotter lately, and Ambrose doesn't like that one goddamn bit. Maybe it's just because he hates hot weather, but.. the momentary calm of that one rainy afternoon is long gone. He knows this is a peak growing season, but after working for a few hours the sun makes him feel faint and he's forced to rest, which just makes him more frustrated over his own perceived laziness. Then he works himself harder, and before he knows it he's passing out at seven in the afternoon and getting to work the first thing the next morning. 

He knows this is the kind of work cycle he used to do back when he was working at Jojacorp- that was less physical toil and more emotional strain, which is why he was able to keep at it for years, but it still ended in him throwing a shitfit in the middle of his office and running out of town. He doesn't want something like that to happen again. 

The package he got in the mail really, really didn't help with his mood. His stomach had twisted when he'd seen the address, but he'd taken it anyway, putting it with the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and trying to put off opening it. He'd lasted maybe 15 minutes making a sandwich and watching TV before getting drawn over again, feeling the thing's presence like eyes on his back.

Inside the package is a letter and a tupperware container. His heart is already beating too fast as he tears it open. He feels sweaty, even more nauseated then before, but makes himself read it anyway. 

_"Dear Ambrose,_  
_How are you doing, sweety? I've missed you so much since you left. I hope the farming life is everything you hoped for._  
_Love, Mom.  
_ _"P.S. I sent your favorite cookies!"_

He wants to cry, or freak out and break something, or do _anything,_ anything at all, but he just finds himself numbly putting the paper back down. He'd nearly blocked out the years he was living at home out successfully, but.. they're still there, and now he can't stop thinking about them. A father he's unable to think of as _his_ anymore, drunk and yelling slurs and condemnations, telling him how he's going to go to hell, and Mom sitting in the armchair, not intervening, just sitting in silent judgement. 

She's missed him, huh?

Moving almost mechically, he picks up the contents of the boxes. He nearly tosses the letter on the hearth, but finds himself hesitating- he won't be lighting it anytime soon, not in this heat. The letter goes in a drawer on his bedside table, and he brings the container of cookies out to the island, crossing the plank bridge to his chickens and upturning it. They coo happily and start pecking away as he walks back to the house, still numb. He's still convinced he should be having more of a reaction then this, but he can't seem to summon the emotions to do so. 

God, he needs a drink. 

The walk over barely registers. Ambrose sits next to Shane when he gets there out of habit, but doesn't greet him like usual- he doesn't really seem to mind it, though. He has enough spare cash to buy a few rounds, at least. One upside of the day. The beer is cold and it gets rid of the horrible hot feeling that summer brings, but he's still downing them far after they have the intended cooling effect. Shane tries to say something later in the night, after a significant amount has blended together, but he just makes a noncomittal noise and shuffles towards the door. 

He only makes it a few steps past the bus stop before deciding that maybe he'll just take a second to sit down against the fence, and then promptly going to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is finally updating, even though I've started several new, slightly-better fics since this one. I think it's gotten easier to write this now that I've banished all hints of shame when it comes to indulgent borderline-self-insert-OC/canon shipping. Also- I've decided to keep with the chapter-alternating perspectives for now, but I'm still going to write things more present-tense then past tense/memory.


End file.
